


By The Light Of The Setting Sun

by Grundy



Series: Daughters of Celebrían [7]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, after the Ring War, choices of the peredhil, elves leaving Middle Earth, picking up the pieces, rebuilding Gondor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 10:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13233678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: For Elrond Half-elven and his children, the defeat of Sauron was a victory, but it was bittersweet. The time of the elves was ending. And they had not escaped the Ring War without losses...





	By The Light Of The Setting Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be where I collect tales of Buffy/Anariel and her family east of the Sea from after the Battle of the Morannon through to the death of Arwen. 
> 
> Please note that as of right now, no archive warnings apply to this story, but I can't rule out that changing in the future. I will update the archive warnings and/or give warnings on future chapters as necessary.

There was a moment, just before she opened her eyes, when for a second she could almost believe it was all a dream.  
  
She was going to wake up in her bedroom in Sunnydale on a Saturday morning, and call Willow. Will and Tara would meet her for brunch and she’d tell them everything, and they could laugh about it later with Xander at the Magic Shop, while Anya scolded all of them for taking up space in the shop without actually buying anything and Giles sighed and shook his head.  
  
But when Anariel opened her eyes, it was all too real. That was the canvas ceiling of her tent – only hers, now, though she could also see her brother’s things slung about, making it clear that they’d foregone their own quarters to stay close to her.  
  
California was long ago in a galaxy far away, and even if she could find her way back there, it wouldn’t matter.  
  
They’d still be dead.  
  
At least Sauron was gone. That meant she probably had some free time to kill now, but it was a Janis Joplin kind of freedom, with so little left to lose.  
  
 _I’d trade all my tomorrows for a single yesterday… except I don’t dare, because even if Sauron couldn’t make that stick, Morgoth probably could._  
  
She stared at the ceiling and tried to stop the tears before they betrayed her.  
  
“It was never _not_ going to hurt, nethig.”  
  
Elrohir sounded tired, despite being spotlessly clean – a sign which meant a decent chunk of time must have passed since her brothers made it clear that no matter what she said, she was putting down her sword now, going into her tent, getting patched up, and then sleeping. Her brothers might have picked up fewer injuries, but even elves didn’t stay pristine in battle. By the time the day was won, the twins had been just as much a blood (and other, equally unsanitary, fluids) covered mess as she had been.  
  
Now that she’d gotten her forty winks, maybe she needed to return the favor – or at least, the sleeping part. She could insist Ro take a nap.  
  
“How long was I asleep?” she asked, deciding it was best to leave her brother’s words as they were.  
  
It would help neither of them to remember that this would not be the last time she would know the pain of mortal loss.  
  
“Five days,” Elladan replied, entering the tent bearing a breakfast tray.  
  
“Five _days_?” she demanded, appalled.  
  
“You needed the rest,” he replied unrepentantly, a hint of sternness creeping into his voice. “And we needed to know we did not have to worry about you doing stupid things for grief and lack of sleep. Legolas stayed with you while we were busy. He sent word to us about an hour ago that he thought you would wake soon.”  
  
“There are many here whose wounds do not heal as readily as yours,” Elrohir explained, before she could demand what was so important that she would have been such a distraction.  
  
Looking down, she found that was true enough. Her injuries had all vanished while she was blissfully unconscious. The only mark that remained was the hand she had burned on the balrog’s whip. It appeared a few things did still scar, even here.  
  
“Lucky me,” she murmured, looking at the stripe.  
  
She ignored the ‘stupid things’ part. Walking through Mordor was a lot safer now than the last time she did it, so what’s there to worry about really? It’s not like Morgoth’s going to make his comeback today.  
  
Though if he did… well, she’s got her favorite sword with her and at least that would give her something to hit that truly deserved it.  
  
“Worry not, you are hardly the only one who has been asleep for days,” Elladan said soothingly, sliding the tray onto her lap. “Eomer King slept several days as well – the Rohirrim rode through the night to the aid of Minas Tirith, and until the host departed for the march on Mordor, he scarcely left his sister’s side save for the times he was needed among his people.”  
  
Her brother had clearly taken some care with the tray – pancakes were out of the question in an army camp, but the fruit was fresh, the bacon was crispy, the toast wasn’t burnt, and the eggs were actually light and fluffy.  It looked like the best possible breakfast given where they were.  
  
Unfortunately, she wasn’t hungry in the least.  
  
“Frodo and Samwise show no signs of waking yet,” Elrohir continued. “So you are not even the last one still abed.”  
  
He paused and eyed her lack of any motion toward the food before one eyebrow swept upward.  
  
“After five days asleep, eating is a thing that needs to happen,” Elrohir said quietly. “No matter how little you may feel like it.”  
  
Looking from one brother to the other, she found they were both watching her like hawks, and would doubtless continue to do so until she worried down as much food as they considered sufficient.  
  
“I would start with the eggs while they are still warm,” Elladan suggested. “Lord Faramir sent his own cook, more for Estel’s sake than ours, we are sure. But as he will no doubt be horrified to the very depths of his noble soul to discover we’ve allowed our baby sister to tag along on this adventure, we thought you should benefit as well.”  
  
Anariel hadn’t met the new young Steward of Gondor yet, though she had heard the tale of Denethor’s madness from Mithrandir several nights ago – no, last week. She made a mental to add those sleeping days in, lest she confuse everyone.  
  
It saddened her to hear that his son had fallen victim to the very trap she’d once counselled Ecthelion against. Though she could understand his choices only too well – as Gondor was increasingly beleaguered, the temptation to use the stone would have grown ever greater. Even the Wise might have given in.  
  
“Indeed,” Elrohir picked up on his brother’s thought. “It will ease the Steward’s gentle heart to know that such a lovely laurelotë did not have to suffer the hard biscuits, dubious meat, and runny eggs most of the foot soldiers must make do with.”  
  
She couldn’t help the eyeroll.  
  
“I am not yet sufficiently recovered that I can stand courtly gallantry,” she sniffed. “Nor am I so fragile as to be a blossom of any kind. Also, I am not your _baby_ sister, I’m your _younger_ sister. Tinu’s your baby sister. And our baby sister is but a few years younger than Denethor, so you should probably not use such descriptions before the edain, lest you confuse them.”  
  
The twins looked encouraged that she responded somewhat normally to taunts about her youth and what mortals assumed to be weakness, which gave her the clue for how she would need to behave. Fake it until you make it – she’d have to mime ‘normal’ at least as long as they remained in Gondor.  
  
 _We know, little one._  
  
She glanced at Elladan, picking at the bacon as she did.  
  
 _If you wish, we can send you to Grandmother and Grandfather as soon as you feel ready to travel. You need not mourn among mortals if it pains you to be near them._  
  
She shook her head, and forced herself to make a start on the toast.  
  
 _No, that’s ok. There’s probably enough to do right here that Estel will need every hand that can help. I can make myself useful. And it matters not if I am surrounded by Men or Elves right now. Neither kindred can bring them back to me._  
  
The camp bed her brothers commandeered for her was from Minas Tirith, and sized for a Gondorian nobleman of a certain age. Consequently, it can accommodate three elves easily, particularly when one of them is her. The twins sat on either side of her, and each wrapped an arm around her.  
  
Her brothers made no answer in words, but they covered her in love and understanding and sympathy all the same – and the reminder that though she may feel the loss most sharply, she was not the only one who grieved for the loss of her mortal brother and sisters.  
  
Eventually Elrohir spoke.  
  
“It is brave of you to try, but if it becomes too much, you are to _tell_ us, little sister.”  
  
“We did warn Estel that the White City might stir too many memories just now.”  
  
“Though we have not told him that we have also been fending off Grandmother and Ada both since yesterday.”  
  
“Their inquiries about you are increasingly insistent.”  
  
“So once you have eaten…”  
  
Anariel sighed.  
  
“Let the Inquisition begin?”  
  
Even now, after all these years, she can still puzzle her brothers with her California words, for though the words themselves can be translated, the reference behind them usually doesn’t follow.  
  
And here, now, in this tent, there was nothing left but her words to show that California ever was.  
  
Her big brothers rocked her like a baby, and assured her later that the tears were normal.


End file.
